As m'lady commands
by YceQueen
Summary: Arya has been back home for a few weeks now, but she's restless and does not know what role to play when the only one that's left, is herself. When Jon and the others return from Eastwatch, Arya is given a prophecy she plans on to ignore, until she discovers someone from her past is involved in this as much as she is.
1. Chapter 1

Jon had hugged her tighter than he did seven years ago, and she'd hugged him right back. It's funny. Over the years, she did not consider herself much of a hugger. Not anymore. She'd seen too much, and lost too many people to think she would ever hug anyone that fierce again. But she'd hugged Sansa, and Bran, and when Jon returned to Winterfell, it felt exactly like seven years ago. She felt like seven years ago. She felt like Arya Stark again. Or what was left of her. They'd laughed and compared a few scars, some of his quite recent, the stupid fool, and he'd promised her they would talk more. But for now, he had business to discuss with the other men who had come to Winterfell with him. She hadn't seen any of them yet, but Brienne had muttered something about 'that bloody ginger Wildling' and had promptly decided she would train Pod some more.

And so here she was now, roaming the halls and yards of Winterfell once again. Sansa was with Jon, discussing business with him, as the Lady of Winterfell should. It still felt odd to call her that, and yet Arya had been forced to admit Sansa was good at it. She knew what to do and what to say, and Arya had felt more than a hint of admiration when Sansa had confronted Littlefinger, and allowed Arya to swing the sword. She did not think Sansa had it in her. In any case, she knew how to play her role. Arya, on the other hand, felt like a wanderer. Ever since she'd returned home, she didn't know quite who she was. What role she would play. She'd been so many people these last years, and she'd been no one. It had been necessary, but the more names she'd used, the further away she'd been from being Arya Stark. And telling people who she was, did not make her feel like her. She felt uncomfortable in her own skin, and she longed for the days when she was simply Arya Stark of Winterfell. Arya, the girl who shot arrows in Bran's place during target practice and threw food at Sansa during dinner. Arya, who trained with Syrio Forel and traveled with Gendry and Hot Pie so she could go home. Arya Stark had slowly disappeared after that. Gendry was her last connection to anything that felt remotely familiar and safe. When the Red Woman took him, and she'd been left with the Hound, Arya Stark, even Arry, began to fade away.

She stopped when she heard the rustle of the leafs. Without realizing, she'd wandered into godswood and had somehow found her way to the heart tree. She wasn't surprised to find Bran there. He spend most of his time at the sacred tree, staring blankly ahead, becoming an animal or ten in the process. Gods if she knew what it all meant. Sansa told her Bran could see the past, present and future, and had seen her during her wedding to that fucking cunt Ramsay Bolton. Although Sansa wouldn't say it out loud, Arya knew she didn't feel at ease around Bran. She didn't want to know to future, and she didn't want to live in the past, she'd replied, before changing the subject. But Arya didn't mind. There wasn't much Bran could tell her that would make her uneasy, even if the future would be bleak and full of death.

She quietly sat down on the tree bark next to Bran, whose eyes had gone white again. She waited patiently, minutes ticking away while she watched the snow fall down, covering everything that hadn't turned completely white yet. It was always snowing nowadays, and it would be snowing for quite a while.

"He's here." She startled when Bran spoke without a warning. Here in the woods, his voice sounded almost too loud, like it might awaken something if he wouldn't speak in more hushed tones.

"Jon? Yeah, he arrived this morning. He would love to see you."

"I will see him tonight at the feast."

Arya said nothing, but smiled sadly. He wasn't himself anymore either. Not the Bran from years ago who would climb the walls and towers of winterfell, and shot arrows at anything but the target.

"He will start to make arrangements soon."

Arya frowned. "What sort of arrangements?"

"He's here," Bran repeated, although to no one in particular.

"Yes, you said that. What sort of arrangements, Bran?"

Bran didn't reply for a few minutes, his gaze once again unfocussed.

Then, he spoke. "A stag will marry a wolf at last."


	2. Chapter 2

Gendry Waters was not made for the North, of this he was certain. After almost freezing his balls off and nearly getting killed by weights and a fucking dead polar bear, he longed to go back South. Not for the hospitality, or the smell of shit and dead people, and certainly not for the imposter on the throne who wanted him dead. But he longed for the warmth, the sun, and even the heat that was always present in his shop. He looked at Jon and Tormund, who didn't seem to be bothered by the cold that, although not as bad as beyond the wall, was still very much an issue for him here in Winterfell. Even the Lady Stark seemed comfortable enough with just a fur coat. He shivered again. If it hadn't been for the vow he made to follow the King in the North, and the fact that he wanted revenge for what happened to his father, he wasn't quite sure if Winterfell was the place for him.

"We have to be prepared for what's coming, your Grace. Those weights are most likely only a fraction of what the true army of the Dead is like. And since this bloody Night King insists on raising the dead everywhere he goes, and can now apparently kill dragons, we're already 10 steps behind. I'm afraid we won't catch up unless we come up with something that will put us on the frontline." Ser Davos Seaworth spoke in earnest, as he always did.

Jon pointed at Gendry. "That's why he's here. We've brought enough dragonglass with us for Gendry to start forging weapons, and as soon as he teaches the other blacksmiths in Winterfell, we'll have swords and daggers ready as soon as possible."

He felt a tinge of annoyance. "With respect, your Grace, but teaching blacksmiths, even the most skilled ones, how to forge a weapon with dragonglass is not an easy task. It will take a while before they'll get the hang of it."

Jon stared at him, and Gendry didn't have to look at the Onion Knight to know he was glaring at him. He cleared his throat. "I just mean to say, your Grace, there's a reason only a few left in the world know how to work with it. It's not as easy as steel."

He grew uncomfortable with the silence, and cursed himself for speaking out like that again. But then Jon nodded. "Understood. You'll still have to teach them, the more who know how to make them, the better our chances. But I understand it won't happen in a fortnight. I only ask that you go about it the smart way. Now that the Lannisters have refused to join us in this fight, we're on our own. It's just the North and Daenerys."

"Yes, and how useful her dragons have been, getting themselves killed," grunted Beric.

"Her dragons are the reason we are still alive, so you would be wise to show a little more respect to your Queen," Jorah snapped at him.

"She's not my Queen," Beric huffed. "I only serve the Lord of Light."

"And the Lord of Light has send his emissaries to pledge their loyalty to the Queen, as I understand it. But you will at the very least show the Queen respect while you are here at Winterfell," Jon replied coldly.

Beric remained quiet, although his disagreement with Jon's demand was quite clear.

Jon sighed and turned to Gendry. "Do you think you can get started on the weapons today?"

Gendry nodded, glad for something to break to tension. "Yes, your Grace. As soon as they've unloaded the dragonglass, I can set up shop by the end of the day. I would advise you not to have every blacksmith follow my lead. Dragonglass is of no use to weights or any of them idiots from the south."

Jon smirked. "Aye, I will send 10 blacksmiths to you, and I shall ask the other Lords for any blacksmiths they can spare to forge steel weapons and armor. And Gendry? I've told you not to call me your Grace. Jon is just fine, or if you insist on using some form of title, than 'my Lord' will suffice."

"M'Lord," Gendry corrected him, and Jon raised an eyebrow.

"I'm lowborn," Gendry clarified. "I couldn't call you by your first name, so it would be m'lord."

Jon studied him for a brief moment and Gendry once again grew uncomfortable. It wasn't that Jon made him uncomfortable, it was that he had learned to keep his head down these past few years, even as he was selling weapons and armor to the Lannisters. Ever since he'd been sold to the Night's Watch, he'd tried to go unnoticed. To go by unnoticed meant to be invisible, and to be invisible meant he'd stay alive. But since Davos brought him to Dragonstone, he'd been noticed more times than the past four years combined. He knew Jon wouldn't kill him, nor did most of the others mean any harm. But it was a habit that he'd grown accustomed to, and was hard to get rid of.

"I could ask Daenerys to legitimize you."

This simple sentence caught him off guard and he was almost certain he'd heard Jon wrong, until he saw Lady Sansa Stark smile.

"Beg your pardon, your Gra-, m'lord?" he stammered.

"Once she has taken the Iron Throne, she could declare you to be Gendry Baratheon, last living son of Robert Baratheon. You would no longer be a bastard, a stag would still survive in this world."

"Why?" Gendry asked, unable to form any other words.

"Because I know how it feels. To be a bastard, to be less than the true heirs, to not go by your father's last name. I am proud of who I am now, to be Jon Snow, but there was a time when I wanted nothing more than to be a true Stark. You could be a true Baratheon. Arrange for a good match in the future. Being a part of a house like Baratheon means more girls will want to marry you," Jon joked.

Gendry laughed. "Not sure if I'd want to marry those stuck up highborns," he said, before almost biting his tongue off. "Not that all highborns are stuck up, I've met highborns who were far from stuck up. Highborns brave enough to stand up against grown warriors. I just don't think I'd fit in well," he clarified.

"No, we highborns can be fairly stuck up," Sansa agreed with a smile. "Gods know I was as a child. All about the pretty dresses and becoming a queen. I was supposed to marry a Baratheon, you know."

"Joffrey. I know. Not the best Baratheon in King's Landing. Or a Baratheon at all, if the rumors are true," Gendry nodded.

"He was the worst, regardless of his family name," Sansa replied.

"I have a son, you have a daughter. We will join our houses," Jon pondered.

Gendry stared at him. "I'm sorry, what?"

Jon shook his head. "It's something your father told my father when he visited Winterfell years ago. A marriage alliance between a Baratheon and a Stark. And now here we are, Starks and Baratheon together once more. It's almost poetic, isn't it?"

"As long as you don't go making the same arrangements as father, it can be as poetic as you want it to," Sansa said.

Jon smiled. "No. You're all free to marry whoever you want. Or nobody."

"Arya will certainly be pleased to hear that," Sansa replied.

Gendry's head snapped up, and he stared at Sansa in disbelief. Surely had must have heard that wrong. Arya was dead, those rumors had been going around for years now. No one had seen her since the death of Ned Stark, and he hadn't seen her since he was sold to that bloody Red Woman, and Arya had been left to fend for herself. He'd often wondered about her after that. Where she was, what happened to her. He'd soon heard stories of her death, and had felt a pang of sadness and grief for the girl who had been his friend. Who had offered to be his family. Whose offer he'd foolishly rejected at the time, and has regretted ever since. But before he dared to ask, there was movement coming from the doorway. A girl, barely recognizable, came marching into the Great Hall, the same fire in her eyes and soul he'd seen years ago. He felt the blood drain from his face, yet he couldn't help but smile at the same time. There she was. Of course she'd survived. She was tough as nails, that one.  
His dislike for Winterfell and its cold weather suddenly seemed unimportant. Perhaps he was made for the North after all.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

"A stag will marry a wolf at last."

She kept hearing the words over and over in her head. She'd laughed at first, sure that Bran must've been joking, although he no longer seemed like the type of person who would joke. When he'd simply looked at her, as if he hadn't just told her the most ridiculous thing, she'd quickly stopped laughing. She'd asked what he meant by that, but he'd only repeated that Jon would make arrangements soon, and then his eyes had gone white again.

And so now, she was on her way to the Great Hall. She knew the rules; when the Lord of Winterfell was discussing business, they were not to be disturbed. Her father had told her and her siblings this many times when they were younger, and her siblings had dutifully obeyed. But Arya was never one to obey the rules. And although her father would always sigh in exasperation, she knew deep down, he was amused. She didn't know if Jon would be amused as well. But she'd just been told by her younger brother that the Starks and Baratheons would reunite once again, despite the fact that House Baratheon had become extinct not too long ago. It seemed impossible Bran was right, and yet she couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. She dreaded the idea that maybe House Baratheon wasn't as extinct as they'd all thought. But even then, why would Jon unite their house with the house of monsters and murderers? He should know better after the last attempt.

She pushed open the door to the Great Hall and, as expected, two guards immediately tried to block her path, until they recognized her. She glared at them briefly, the same idiots who'd denied her entry Winterfell when she arrived several months ago, and they quickly stepped aside. She marched into the Great Hall, aware that slowly, all heads were turning her way. She didn't bother looking at them. She might not be the Lady of Winterfell, and thank the Gods for that, but she could still demand respect, and she could still demand to speak with her brother.

Jon stepped away from the table, concern in his eyes. "Arya, what is the meaning of this? Is there something wrong?"

"Are you arranging a marriage for one of us?"

Taken aback by her direct approach, he briefly exchanged a look with Sansa before focusing his attention back on her. "Arya, I don't know what you're talking about."

"A stag will marry a wolf at last," she repeated Bran's words, and Jon seemed clearly surprised by these words.

"That's what our dear brother just told me. Said you would be making arrangements soon. Now the idea that someone from House Baratheon is still alive is ridiculous, but the idea that you think Sansa or I would ever marry them, that I would marry anyone, is even worse."

Jon smiled, which both confused and angered her. "Arya, I would never arrange for you or Sansa to marry anyone. In fact, I've just told Sansa that all of you are free to marry whoever you want. Or nobody."

Someone to her far right huffed, drawing her attention away from her brother. "You would think we'd have more important matters to discuss than who she will or won't marry," the man muttered.

Arya recognized him right away and her anger surged. She took a few steps in his direction, and he straightened himself, slightly confused. "Beric Dondarrion," she spoke slowly.

"My Lady," he acknowledged. "Apologies if I came off as disrespectful, it was not my intention, but we do have an upcoming war to prepare for."

"Oh, that's not what you should apologize for."

"Beg your pardon, my Lady?"

"Do you know how many times I've muttered your name before I went to sleep at night?" she asked him.

"Oh bloody hell," she heard Sansa sigh, but she did not pay attention to it.

"I'm—I'm confused, my Lady," Beric said, unsure of what was happening.

"Confused? Confused about what? Keeping me with you against my will so you could ransom me for money?" She pulled out her dagger. "Or selling my only friend to the Red Woman?"

Realization seemed to dawn on the man as he tried to speak, but Arya raised her weapon, silencing him, while she heard several blades being unsheathed around her.

"Arya, what is the meaning of this?" Jon approached her, worry and anger in his voice, but she ignored him. She thought she knew anger, but she hadn't been angry in a long time. She'd been tired, and vengeful, and disappointed. Anger was something she'd left behind a long time ago. But now her anger was raging underneath her skin, waiting to be unleashed and wreak havoc. She felt it as strong as she did the day Gendry'd been taken. The despair as she'd realized what was happening, how she would be separated from the only safe person she had left. Another piece of her already fractured family gone. The blade of her dagger dug deeper into his skin, and blood trickled down his neck.

"Well, that's unladylike," a voice said from behind her, and it threw her off. The voice, though deeper and more mature now, was all too familiar to her. She had expected that his voice wouldn't still sound as she'd remembered. Like her memory had made it sound more beautiful and intense then it really was. But it hadn't. She'd recognize it anywhere. The dagger still pointed at the Lord of Blackhaven's throat, she slowly turned around, and then she felt as if the air was sucked out of her lungs. You'd think that after being reunited with once thought-dead family members made it easier for her to process the situation in front of her, but she couldn't pretend she didn't feel dizzy, or like her heart wasn't racing 100 miles an hour. She lowered her dagger and gazed at him. At sweet, stupid Gendry.

"You're not dead," she then stated.

"Neither are you, m'lady," he replied with a faint smile on his face.

"Do not call me m'lady," she warned him, precisely aware of what he'd do next.

He bowed down. "As m'lady commands."

She stared at him, lightheaded with the amount of emotions she felt. He slowly raised his head and she saw he was smirking. He'd grown, changed, but the same boyish twinkle was still in his eyes. He was still Gendry. She sheathed her dagger and then did what she seemed to be doing quite a lot these days. She hugged him. Intensely and fiercely, and he responded with an equally intense hug. Despite the many years, he still smelled the same. He was still Gendry.

"You're not dead," she simply repeated.

"No. I am not," he whispered.


End file.
